


you’ve got the run of the place, now that you’re running around (and may kindness, kindness, kindness abound)

by philthestone



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, and babies, i am incapable of writing tmk fic that doesnt involve babies apparently, so check it out kids i played fast and loose with History again;;
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 07:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10531545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: “Grandpère,” she says, firmly, because they are all but alone amongst the hedges and Papa says it is alright to call him that when they are alone. She is not sure if he is really her grandfather, nottruly– but she feels right, calling him so, and he always looks so pleased when she does. She has been doing it all afternoon for just that reason, in fact, and each time – well, Marie thinks, there is awarmth. Her fingers tighten around his, and he does not move to take his hand away, but rather squeezes firmly back. “Tell me the story about the princess in the castle.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> woooow i truly cannot believe my own self sometimes
> 
> more notes at the end bc i did Research for this one but basically .... happiness. thats all that's going down here. 
> 
> title is from joanna newsom's "esme" and reviews are pure and wholesome

“Grandpère?”

“Yes, _ma_ _chère_?”

“Grandpère, Papa has seemed very concerned of late.”

It is a mild day, the type of day where the sun is just warm enough to make one’s skin feel caught in a gentle embrace. The sky is a soft blue, and the air has but a hint of damp to it that settles well in one’s chest. A soft breeze skitters over the two figures in the garden and sweeps up through the rose bushes and into the open sky.

Along the stone path leading down to the hedges, the old man and little girl still in their walk. A bird calls somewhere across the gardens, but the little girl is not concerned with the bird, nor even with the mildness of the day; she remembers her governess once say that she is too young to appreciate fine weather for its own sake, outside of an opportunity to play outdoors. She, personally, does not agree with this assessment; she is perfectly appreciative of the weather. Right now, though, she has some very important matters weighing upon her mind. 

Her grandfather, who knows this, reaches over and pats her shoulder, sighing very slightly.

“Here, over here, let us sit down for a moment.”

“Are you going to answer my question?” asks the little girl, not moving – not because she is not sensitive to an old man’s aching feet, but more in a way that suggests she and the old man are kindred spirits, of a sort, and just now she is quite sure of his evasive tone and intent.

“Maria,” says the old man, tilting his head in a manner which the little girl knows means he is about to tease her. “You did not ask me a question.”

He always calls her _Maria_ , she thinks, though it is not her given name. Papa has given up being aggrieved about it, though Mama still hides her small smiles at the hispanic version of _Marie_. Mama misses her old home sometimes, Marie knows, though she never says anything. Marie knows, but more importantly, her grandmother _knew_ , which is how Marie picked up on it in the first place. She wonders, sometimes, if her grandfather calls her _Maria_ for the same reason.

Marie sighs, now – a large and heaving thing perhaps unbecoming of a young girl wearing a frock of such finery. Then again, Marie knows, her grandfather has never been one to much care about the finery, nor what becomes a person in any given situation. “Gentleness and grace,” is what he has always repeated to her and her siblings, smiling in that splendid way that makes it feel as though they are sharing an inside joke. “That is what we must conduct ourselves with. Anything else, well, that is between ourselves and God. But I do not think God minds so much the skill with which we curtsey.”

“You know what I _mean_ ,” says Marie now, falling once more into step with him, skipping a little bit to keep up; even moving so much slower than he used to, his legs are far longer than hers. She wonders if _she_ will ever have legs that long, and then loops his arm in hers, such that he may lean on her ever so slightly as he walks.

“Ah, _pajarita_ , you are always so good to this old man, taking my arm like this. It means I must never admit that I am getting old.”

Marie smiles despite herself, corners of her mouth curling and dimples growing in her cheeks, and she nudges her grandfather with her hip.

“Don’t worry, Grandpère,” says Marie seriously. “I believe you are still far more handsome than the Duke of Lorraine.”

“Marie,” says the old man, stopping in his walk quite abruptly. “I do believe that is a useless comparison. _Esme_ is more handsome than the Duke of Lorraine.”

Esme, Marie knows, is the very old horse who remains haltered in the stables, these days, and once belonged to the previous captain of the Musketeers. She must have been pretty _once_ , Marie reasons, but as of now only droops a little bit in all the wrong places.

“Don’t be mean,” Marie tells her grandfather severely. “Esme has great fortitude of character.”

 _Fortitude of character_ is a phrase that Papa uses often, which he says that he learned from his Mama. Marie thinks that it is a splendid phrase. 

“Forgive me,” says her grandfather, mock serious, pressing a hand to his chest, where his shirt hangs more open than Mama has ever deemed appropriate, unlaced to show off a small jeweled crucifix that he carries with him always. “I am sure God will berate me appropriately in the next world for impugning upon Esme’s honour.”

Marie nudges him again with her hip, which only comes up to just above his knee, her pale yellow skirts swish around her ankles as she does, and she finally lets out a reluctant giggle when her grandfather offers her an exaggerated wink.

“There,” says the old man, grinning, “no use creasing your eyebrows like that with worry, little one. You should be running around these gardens, today, free as a bird!”

“And instead I’m here, walking with you,” says Marie, in a matter of fact sort of way that only nine years olds can make to sound charming. They continue walking, and Marie represses the impulse to kick at stray stones in her path with the tip of her shoes. _Free as a bird_ , she thinks. That is another thing her grandfather always calls her, when he is not stubbornly insisting on using the Spanish _Maria_ – _little bird_. _Pajarita_ , he says, with a sweet inflection to his voice that seems to be reserved only for her – not the youngest nor oldest of her siblings, but somewhere right in the middle. 

This one, though, he does not say in front of Mama or Papa, but just between the two of them. Even her older brother Louis does not have the privilege of having a secret name like this, just between him and their grandfather, and Marie holds this close to her heart.

Beside her, her grandfather takes a sudden, deep breath, and slows in his step.

“Your Papa is looking concerned about matters of state,” he says, “if I have understood correctly. You see –” he raises his eyebrows in a conspiratorial manner; Marie wonders at how much more grey they have now than they did only last year, and leans in. “You see, there are many people in France who do not share the same beliefs, and your Papa must deal with them all.”

“You mean like last year, with the –” Marie leans in even further, such that they are nearly forced to stop in their walk once more, and whispers loudly in his ear: “the _Huguenots_.”

Her grandfather laughs out loud, and Marie frowns at him.

“What?”

“Oh, _chère_ , you looked so much like the King right there.”

“I was being _serious_ ,” Marie tells him in an imperious tone, linking their arms more firmly. If he says she looks like Papa, then she may as well adopt his most courtly manner, and make her back as straight as can be.

“As you should have been, I do apologize for my rudeness,” says her grandfather, bowing his head a little more than usual. He has always been tall, Marie knows, though now perhaps he does not stand quite as firmly as he did when she was still an infant. There is still a twinkle to his sharp brown eyes, though. She sighs.

“It’s alright, Grandpère. I’m just –” She struggles. “I’ve not seen Papa this concerned before.”

“I believe,” says her grandfather gently, “that your Papa will make the right choices in the end.”

“Can’t _you_ help him?” asks Marie, skipping a little in her step at this sudden brilliant idea. Marie knows that her grandfather usually approves of her brilliant ideas, though she cannot say that she has _that_ many of them, for that would be arrogant, and Mama says that that is an unfortunate quality to possess. “He trusts you, more than anyone – Mama said so just the other day, you know, and I really think –”

“Oh, no,” says the old man, shaking his head very slightly. “I’m afraid those days are far behind me now, _ma chère_.”

“You were one of the best politicians in France,” says Marie stubbornly, finally giving in and kicking at the stray stones. “ _That_ is what Papa himself says.”

“He has me confused with his mother,” says her grandfather mildly, his gaze casting about the path for a moment before settling on the bench that they have been searching for the past little while. “Ah, here we are.”

“He _hasn’t_ ,” Marie insists following him as he goes. “But if _you’re_ going to be so stubborn, then fine.”

She waits until her grandfather is comfortably seated on the bench and then gathers her skirts and hops on beside him, of half a mind to tuck her legs up under her. She looks at her grandfather, and the old man raises his eyebrows very slightly, and Marie purses her lips and very carefully toes off her shoes before tucking her legs under her skirts on the bench.

Her grandfather smiles; Marie heaves another put-upon sigh and watches the bush of roses in front of them, the soft yellows and whites that match the colours in her dress. _The fabric goes with your beautiful hair, your highness_ , Mama’s seamstress had told her just last week, as she took the measurements. If Mama knew that she was walking around the gardens wearing her newest frock, she might be disappointed, but Marie has made sure to keep her skirts clean. And besides, her grandfather is here to make sure that she doesn’t do anything so foolish as to fall over into the dirt. Unless, of course, she expressed a great desire to fling herself into any of the softer dirt patches, to relieve her spirit, whereupon he might actually encourage her.

Marie isn’t sure.

“He is dealing with proud men,” says her grandfather presently. “And liars. Never think that you must lie to succeed in politics, _pajarita_. You use your charm and intellect and come out victorious every time.”

“Is that what Papa does?” asks Marie, scooting a little bit on the bench and leaning into the old man’s side. He is warm, as he always is, and the silk of his jacket is soft and worn with age. He refuses to commission a new one, Marie knows; he doesn’t need it, he says, as he is no longer good for anything but taking walks with Marie in the gardens and collecting roses from the bushes to present to his old friend, the greying widow Madame d’Artagnan. “I’ve no need to be presentable anymore,” he always says, a twinkle in his eyes. He’s been saying it even more this past year, which Marie knows has Papa concerned, for her grandfather has always been meticulous in maintaining his appearance, not just out of the long-ago necessity of being France’s first minister.

He still trims his beard very neatly, though, so that is good, Marie thinks. And she insists that he more handsome than the Duke of Lorraine every two weeks or so, to his great delight, so things have not changed _that_ much.

“I believe it is,” says her grandfather easily, allowing her to take his hand in hers and start playing with his fingers, as is their custom. “Though sometimes he ties the ribbon in his hair incorrectly and makes a fool of himself, you know.”

His eyes are dancing with the tease, and Marie rolls her eyes very slightly. It is not becoming of princesses to roll their eyes so, is what her governess says, but her grandfather does not mind, and so she sometimes does it around him. He, Marie knows, always ties the ribbon in _his_ hair correctly, even now in his old age holding his long curls, still stubbornly dark in most places, out of his face with a small ribbon made of blue silk that Marie thinks has been a part of him even longer than she herself has been alive. 

“God wouldn’t want people to fight over their opinions of him,” decides Marie after a moment, patting her grandfather’s hand with her own. “I think.”

“Hmmm,” says her grandfather. “Maria, I am surprised at you. You presume to know what God wants.”

“Grandpère,” says Marie in a long-suffering tone, now examining his index finger. There is a long-healed scar along the tip, and she taps her smaller, paler fingers against it. “How _else_ am I going to do the right _thing_.”

“Well,” says the old man. “God has written it all down for you to peruse, has He not?”

Marie considers this for a long moment. Her governess would likely not approve of any requests to read the Bible in place of her lessons, for she still does not know how to curtsey properly, nor how to conduct her duties as a future queen. But then – sometime soon, Marie knows, she will be betrothed, and _then_ when will she have a chance to know what God wants?

“You’re right,” says Marie finally, tapping her grandfather’s finger again. “I think.”

Her grandfather chuckles, his tanned cheeks furrowing with laugh lines. 

“Ah, _mija_ ,” he says, “you are the best thing an old man like me could ask for.”

“You’re the best thing too,” Marie tells him sincerely, pressing her round cheek against his shoulder and continuing in her exploration of his weathered hands. “Grandpère, what happened here?”

“Oooh,” says her grandfather, tilting his head to look at the faded white line across one of his knuckles. “Maria, I tell you, I cannot remember.”

“You can’t _remember_ ,” says Marie, sounding aghast. “It must not be a very good story, then.”

“Hm,” says her grandfather, unimpressed. “ _Musn’t_ it, now.”

“Well,” says Marie. “You could always make one up, if you can’t remember.” 

Her grandfather’s chest shakes with laughter again, his head falling back against the back of the bench. He shakes his head at her very slightly, smile lopsided beneath his beard.

“You are a corrupting influence, _pajarita_. Whatever am I going to tell your grandmother when I see her?”

Marie stills in her game, small hands curling around the old man’s much larger, calloused ones.

“You will not see her very soon, I hope,” says Marie.

“Maria,” says her grandfather, very softly.

“Grandpère,” she says, firmly, because they are all but alone amongst the hedges and Papa says it is alright to call him that when they are alone. She is not sure if he is really her grandfather, not _truly_ – but she feels right, calling him so, and he always looks so pleased when she does. She has been doing it all afternoon for just that reason, in fact, and each time – well, Marie thinks, there is a _warmth_. Her fingers tighten around his, and he does not move to take his hand away, but rather squeezes firmly back. “Tell me the story about the princess in the castle.”

“You mean,” says her grandfather, “as an explanation for this little scar.”

Even as an old man, stooping a little bit with the years, he sits on the bench with a sort of easy grace that very few people whom Marie has met possess. It is different from the way Papa holds himself, she knows – he is regal and poised, head held high, his presence a powerful sort of thing that Marie has always assumed is something that Kings must be given by God. Her grandfather, though – he always looks as though he is comfortable where he sits, never out of place, even when Marie is sure he must feel so. The Duke of Lorraine, Marie knows, has never really liked him, and always directs snooty, underhanded comments towards him when he is in the room. Marie knows this because she has been there and heard them, and been the one to share in her grandfather’s amused glance in her direction, as they two privately had a laugh at the pompous duke. 

“If you _must_ ,” says Marie now, giving him a look.

“Well you are the one who said I might make one up,” he reminds her, and then scratches at his beard, which is far more grey than his hair, thinking. “Now, let’s see … the princess in the castle.” He pauses. “You’re sure you don’t want the one where the scrappy hero avenges his father’s terrible murder?”

“Grand- _père_ ,” says Marie.

“Just checking,” says the old man, eyes twinkling. “Alright, the princess – where was I?”

“She’s very lonely because she doesn’t believe she has any friends,” Marie prompts; she has heard this story many times, and it is, indeed, her favorite.

“Ah,” says her grandfather, tapping his nose wisely. “Yes yes, of course. Well, _chère_. There was once a young woman who lived alone in a large palace, and believed that she had no friends.”

“She was very beautiful,” says Marie, squirming a little in her seat with anticipation. (She has heard this story many times.) “And smart.”

“ _And_ smart,” agrees her grandfather, eyes crinkling once more at the corners with a smile. “But she was _trapped_ in this palace all on her own, with nothing but her wits and faith.”

Marie, who knows that the princess will ultimately find happiness, but who suffers from what Papa fondly calls “an abundance of empathy”, gasps and clutches at her grandfather’s hand.

Her grandfather sighs.

“Maria,” he says.

“Grandpère, the _princess_.”

“You must promise not to become too agitated,” he says. “Because as we all know, the princess –”

“Lives happily ever after,” says Maria, dismissive in such a fashion that would be terribly rude with Mama or Papa, but is simply laughed about with her grandfather. “I _know_ , I know. But if I pretend I don’t know that makes the story more _compelling_ , you see.”

“I see,” says the old man, laughing softly. “Well then. The young princess spent many nights alone in her chambers, wishing for the company of some friends. Alas –” and here her grandfather shakes his head “– those around her were devious and cunning, and had closed off all the entrances to the palace, such that the young woman could not escape and go meet kindred spirits.”

“She was stuck with the lousy people,” says Marie, sighing tragically.

“Very lousy people,” agrees her grandfather, and then he must stop in his storytelling, because a cough has overtaken his chest. Marie’s eyebrows furrow once more.

“Grandpère?”

“I’m alright – I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head. “Really, _pajarita._ It’s an old grievance, you know that.”

“The damp makes it worst though,” recites Marie, for that is what she has heard her Papa say. She is not sure of the specifics, but her grandfather used to have many adventures, Marie knows, and that leaves one with ailments in their old age – at least, that is how the old man himself has explained it, and then solemnly vowed afterwards that it doesn’t apply to _him_ , has he has not aged, and has remained youthful and dashing, thank you very much.

And then he winks, always, and Marie allows him to lean on her just slightly as they continue their walks through the gardens.

“But it’s not damp at all, little one,” says her grandfather now, his sharp eyes suddenly looking a bit tired. “The weather is balmy and beautiful, no?”

“Yes,” sighs Marie. “I suppose so.”

“We have left the princess forgotten and lonely in her tower,” her grandfather reminds her. “We can’t just leave her there without friends, can we?”

Marie sits up, eyes widening. “Of course not!”

“Well, then,” says her grandfather, voice only very slightly more hoarse than before. “Let’s continue – where were we?”

“She was trapped with no way to get out, and then the next day some _really bad men_ came,” Marie says immediately, back straightening even further. “And she escaped them, because she really _did_ have friends, many friends –”

“Shall I tell the story, _pajarita_?” asks the old man in a mild voice, “or shall you?”

Marie falls silent and makes a face at him, and then swings her legs, which she has pulled out from underneath her, in a childish manner which she will insist is _not_ childish, but carefree.

“No, no,” she insists, after a moment of frowning. “You tell it best.”

“ _Thank_ you, Mademoiselle,” says her grandfather in an affected voice, which is ruined by the fond smile on his face. He takes a deep breath, leaning back a bit against the bench – his back is not what it used to be, he has told Marie before. “Now. One day, some very bad men came. They had been contracted – caught up in an evil scheme by one bad man in particular, who was plotting against her, you see.”

“Hmph,” says Marie, sniffing; she has never approved of this bad man who sought out to hurt the princess.

“Terrible,” agrees her grandfather. “But the princess was intelligent, and very brave. She didn’t lose her wits, but rather gathered them up with all the grace in the land, and got astride her horse and escaped in the nick of time!”

“Yes!” crows Marie, who really loves this part.

“Of course, she could not have gotten on her horse without the help of her loyal guards, and in their harrowing escape, the princess finally found kindred spirits.” Something in the old man’s face softens, here, and he continues, Marie listening with rapt attention. “She charmed them all with her courage and kindness,” he says, “and they became very dear friends. The princess realized, then, that she was not alone – never alone. Together, she and her companions escaped the bad men, and defeated them once and for all.”

“And she met a handsome prince and they fell in love,” says Marie, who has once more taken up with playing with her grandfather’s long fingers. She is rushing to the end, she knows – skipping over the parts where her grandfather in past retellings has described the fair maiden who was the princess’s most valiant knight, and who spent her time protecting the innocent; the princess’s solemn advisor, who had a dark and mysterious past, but whose devotion to his friends was unparalleled; the gentle giant with whom the princess shared many jokes, his loyalty unwavering; and the fiery young hero, who feared nothing and swept the fair knight off her feet with his dashing ways. Marie has heard all of this before, and in particular loves the parts with the knight. But right now, she knows that her governess will be looking for her at any moment, calling her name loudly through the gardens, and she wants desperately the finish the story. “Isn’t that how the story goes, Grandpère?”

“Mmm,” hums her grandfather, patting her leg with her own hands, which are still tangled in his. “More important, _chère_ , was that she was no longer trapped in the palace.”

“Because she realized she had many friends. So she became free.”

“As a bird,” says her grandfather, the words coming out as half a sigh, looking across the gardens with that same soft look in his dark eyes. “That is always the most important thing, remember, _mija_. To be free in your heart.”

Marie smiles, her cheeks dimpling, and drops her head back against the bench to look up at the sky. The rosebush in front of them rustles slightly in the mild breeze, its leaves fluttering like green jewels.

She turns her face to her grandfather again; he is still looking across the gardens.

“I miss Grandmère,” says Marie, very quietly.

There is a long moment, where the old man says nothing, but tightens his grip on her hand. But then he smiles, tired and soft with many years, and turns to look at her.

“She would chide me for telling you wildly inaccurate stories,” he says.

“I am sure,” says Marie seriously, “that she would love that she’s the heroine in my favorite one.” Her grandfather laughs, rich and warm, the one that always makes Marie feel safe.

“Ah,” he says, flicking his granddaughter’s ear very lightly. “She was far too humble for that.”

“Well –” begins Marie, but is interrupted, for her poor governess has finally located her, and she is calling her name loudly across the hedges.

“Oh, dear,” says Marie.

“Maria,” says her grandfather, reproachful. “Have you been skipping your lessons to spend time with _me_?”

Marie sighs tragically once more. “I _suppose_.”

But then her grandfather smiles, his eyes glinting with mischief, and places one finger against his lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Marie grins, and then, at her governess’s second cry leaps to her feet and starts to run towards the palace steps. She skids to a halt, halfway back across the path, because in her haste she has forgotten her shoes, and won’t _that_ be a sight, her rushing in through the front hall in her stockings only. She twirls back around and grabs them where they are lying strewn on the ground halfway between her and the bench where her grandfather is sitting; she’s clutching them in her hands when she straightens, looking straight back across at her grandfather, who is once more looking towards the rosebushes, smiling.

Marie feels something swell in her small chest, a feeling that she’s not sure what to call, and hesitates – her governess calls her name again, loud and aggrieved over her head.

Without a second thought, Marie rushes forwards and flings her arms around her grandfather’s neck; he startles slightly, clearly having assumed her long gone by now, but hands coming up automatically to steady her at the waist before Marie plants a smacking kiss to his cheek and then whirls back around racing back up the path.

“Love you, Grandpère!” she calls, the ribbons of her dress trailing behind her, stocking-clad feet pattering on the stone path. Behind her, she can here his laughter, warm and rich and the kind that always makes her feel safe.

“And I you, _pajarita_!”

She skids to a stop in front of Madame Renaud, who has her hands on her hips and looks very harried.

“Your highness,” she says, in a stern tone. “I have been worried out of my mind, you know! You should have been there for your lessons an hour ago!”

“I was admiring the rosebushes,” says Marie faithfully, placing her palm over her heart and then realizing that she is still holding her shoe. She looks down at it slowly, and then back up at Madame Renaud through her lashes.

“Rosebushes,” scoffs Madame Renaud, a stout woman with a gentle face. Her voice, Marie can tell, is softening; she has never been very good at scoffing, and perhaps that is why Marie finds it so easy to escape to the gardens on days like this. “You were with the old minister Aramis, is what.” Marie feels her eyebrows crease, but then Madame Renaud reaches out and pats down her hair, and brushes her collar, and sighs. “So long as your walks do not take you away from your lessons, highness, that is all I ask.” She ushers Marie up the palace steps. “I am sure he of all people would tell you that your lessons are important!”

“I promise,” says Marie, still clutching her shoe to her chest. “Madame Renaud, may I study the Bible today instead of my usual lessons?”

“God have mercy on my soul,” grumbles the patient Madame Renaud, giving Marie another nudge. “You may ask his Majesty, and that’s my final word on it.”

Marie grins, and lets her hands drop, and if she does not get her wish _today_ – well. Papa will surely understand her serious and vitally important request. In the meantime, she can pretend that she is the princess in the story when Madame Renaud instructs her on how to curtsey, and that, for Marie, is nearly as splendid as sharing jokes with her grandfather.

Back by the hedges, an old man sits smiling for all the flowers to see.

“She has your sense of humor, Ana,” Aramis tells the rosebush in a quiet voice, a soft brightness to his dark eyes. “And your beautiful smile. You would be so proud of her.”

In the garden, a peacock calls, and the gentle breeze skitters through the bushes, flying up into the sky to join the birds in their flight.

**Author's Note:**

> so i tried to keep it as in-line with History and Book Canon as i could without stepping out of the bounds of the show's happy ending (yall know how much i thrive on that happy ending) and as such, this is what i've got figured:
> 
> \- according to our good friend wikipedia, marie therese really was a daughter of louis xiv (ie, our babyTM), one of six legitimate children and named for her mother, maria theresa, who was, yes, spanish. of course, marie therese is supposed to have died when she was five or so (tragic) and that's where her historical presence in this fic becomes null and void. basically -- little marie is _loosely based_ upon the historical person of marie therese
> 
> \- according to Book Canon (and i've been getting wildly varying accounts of this, so bare with me if i say something False here) aramis outlives all of his brothers, lives to some point in his seventies, and is happy in his old age as the french ambassador to spain. of course, here aramis is not the ambassador to spain, though he is very happy, all things considered. it's also important to note that dumas specifically makes sure to tell us that aramis remains alive and youthful for so long mostly out of a a sheer stubborn refusal to age that's born out of vanity (gotta love this loser) and he, and i quote, "had retained his feminine hands and slim figure". this is something d'artagnan is very peeved about at some point, for, according to him, aramis is actually a rough three years older than him and the fact that he's aged worst than aramis is just The Worst. anyway, some of the tidbits in the fic about marie insisting that her grandfather is still handsome and his hair stubbornly refusing to grey completely is borne of this info
> 
> \- historically - and this is the one thing that i am Very Sure Of - anne died of breast cancer at the age of 64. assuming that in show canon, aramis is only roughly four or five years older than anne (i'm assuming this bc in the books he's actually YOUNGER than her by a solid couple years, but in real life the age gap between cabrera and dowling is like, 10+ years, so i'm kind of .... playing with the numbers and coming to a Compromise? like, aramis definitely Looks very young in season one, and anne is described in the original script as being "a young woman in her twenties", so i'm just going to go ahead and assume that she's in her earlier twenties and he's in his later twenties and leave it at that) - ANYWAYS. assuming he's four or so years older than her, this fic is set maybe a year or so after her passing, which works within book canon because aramis would still be alive - though, none of the others would be
> 
> \- none of the others would be, but i couldn't abide the thought of constance dying of consumption or whatever it was she did in the books so it's been decided that constance outlives them all and that's just the facts
> 
> \- finally, I dont know anything about Huguenots and only vaguely am aware that the babyTM did some important church-state stuff in his Real Life Reign which i dont have opinions about because i dont know enough, but whatever was the case in real life i'm going to go ahead and say that he would do Good things in show canon bc his parents are Good People who raised him to be the best king france has ever seen
> 
> \- also, aramis's first minister-ing being based on the historical figure of cardinal mazarin, i once again am not sure how respected a politician mazarin was, but i do know that both anne and louis trusted him immensely and so history, in this case, actually reinforces show canon. FUN FACTS EVERYONE!!! 
> 
> \- aramis being a grandfather was something i really couldn't pass up, which is funny because that makes it sound as though i have any self control at all when it comes to writing stories about aramis (i don't, please don't be fooled). i'd like to think that though they try their best to keep the SecretTM, in case, u know, civil war happens, in his old age, and especially after anne's death, aramis is a lot more chill about what he says and how he acts and thus dotes upon his grandchildren quite publicly, and uses spanish terms of endearment because he knows it was have made anne smile and also he tells the kids that he's just a crazy old man now so the courtiers won't care enough to gossip about any nonsense he gets up to
> 
> \- this isn't really in the same universe as "hark the bluebells", though it COULD be, i guess, but a friend of mine pointed out that it would be hilariously wonderful if the babyTM and marie cessette developed big crushes on each other in their youth and porthos and aramis were like "is this good or bad we can't tell" and so i like to think that in hark the bluebells those two get married and live happily ever after, succession of monarchy whom, i don't know her, this whole thing is already a mess anyway, might as well make the most of it
> 
> \- that's all, folks! i hope u enjoyed!


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